I was in a meeting this morning with a guy . . . listen, he was fifty, maybe sixty if he was a day. His face was not that of a young man.
And that’s okay. Good for you, dude. He certainly wasn’t “old” in any negative sense of the word. He was just a guy sitting in a construction meeting.
With what HAD to be a wig of flowing red hair.
Down past his shoulders.
To the small of his back.
The top was a freaking hair helmet that Frankie Avalon would give his left nut for. I’m telling you, this guy didn’t need a hardhat to go into the construction zone. He could spend all day at the batting range and not have to worry about hat-head. If Gary Busey had a hairpiece like that his whole life woulda been different.
But I digress.
Hey, I don’t know the full story. Other than laughing, momentarily, at one of my jokes (it was a business meeting, so no, it wasn’t the one about the hooker with the dysentery) we didn’t exchange even business cards. Maybe he’s recovering from cancer, or maybe he’s been bald since he was ten.
But dude, there’s a hairpiece that says, “hi, I am a dignified businessman here to assist you with your project. Please pay me a lot of money and trust the future of your company — at least this piece of it — to my capable hands,” and there’s a hairpiece that says, “squeeze my nose and I’ll do a little dance. You can hit me in the face with a pie and my pants will fall down. That, or I’ll go get one of those awesome double-guitars and a pair of tight, spandex pants and rock the amphitheater.”
I’m not saying you can’t have fun with a wig. You can. Maybe you should.
But there’s “having fun” and “playing dressup” and I’m saying he was doing the latter.
Or hey, maybe it was his real hair. Stranger things, after all, have happened, eh?
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